


Aluminum Anniversary

by Arya_Greenleaf



Series: Twitter Fic [23]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxiety, Gen, Mentioned The Them (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22520635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: Crowley wonders -- driving around the M25 and grinding out his own bit of hellish energy on the dread sigil -- he wonders as he crawls toward Tadfield on that awful loop, if his own rotation on the hamster wheel of devilish intent was more or less potent than the average Londoner? Especially now in the Bentley restored by the power of the Antichrist, how exactly does it work? Is he drawing Armageddon the Redux ever closer with his driving? It's one of the few real pleasures in life, driving the Bentley. He'd hate to think it.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device
Series: Twitter Fic [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1115475
Comments: 18
Kudos: 49





	Aluminum Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> Originally started as a twitter thread. Based on my impressions of what the novel-presented characters might be like after a significant amount of time has passed post-canon. I've seen the show so some influence has snuck in there, forgive me. I did my best to stick to my reading of the novel characters.

Crowley sighs. Steam curls around his face, fragrant from the bath.  
  
It has been ten years since the Apocalypse That Didn't and each one is still difficult. Adam's birthday is marked on the calendar with a red circle -- Warlock's too, Crowley supposes, and that greasy child who kept giving the Them trouble all through school. Three boys, three families, all entangled together without ever really understanding it.  
  
Crowley sinks a little further down and flakes of whatever the hell was in the sachet the witch said would calm his frayed nerves tickle at his throat. Lazily, he pushes at the handle of the hot water tap with his toes to refresh it just a bit.  
  
It's been ten years of relative silence. There is the occasional bother, yes. Can't be totally avoided. But no new attempts at apprehension or prosecution have been made, no new assignments from downstairs to indicate they plan to go on as if none of it happened. They're planning _something_ , Crowley is sure of it, but being left alone also means being out of the loop -- which means that he questions every last thing, all of it from reports of political unrest on the news to local bus delays.

 _Everything_ could mean _something_.

The bath doesn't so much as get cold as Crowley simply loses interest in it. In the same way that any car he gets into should have a proper CD player and a phone, so they do; baths should stay nice and hot, so they do.  
  
He does feel physically just a little bit better than before as he rises out of the water and steps gingerly over the side, like he's taken off a pair of pants that were just a hair too tight. He needs a towel so he has one, plush and warm, to wrap around his head. The cooler air just paces away from the tub makes him shiver before he slides his robe over his shoulders. He moves through the flat slowly, conscious of each shadow and shift. The plants all hold their breath as he passes them and doubles back. He picks up the mister and makes his way around the room, quietly appraising each leaf and petal. He glares at the roses. Logically, they shouldn't do as well as they do housed as they are, but they belong to Crowley and they know better.

"You there," he points the naked stem that Anathema plucked a bloom from on her last visit. She helps him scry for demonic activities and he looks the other way when she leaves with a flower in her hair or a cutting for her garden. "Are you going to fix yourself or do I need to prune you?"  
  
In a blink there is an infant bud where the end had been neatly shorn and slightly brown.

The boy is still in Tadfield, although Crowley supposes that he isn't really a boy anymore now that he's in university and all of that. The hellhound is still there too, still stuck at Adam's side and brimming with all the energy of a puppy.  
  
Crowley wonders -- driving around the M25 and grinding out his own bit of hellish energy on the dread sigil -- he wonders as he crawls toward Tadfield on that awful loop, if his own rotation on the hamster wheel of devilish intent was more or less potent than the average Londoner? Especially now in the Bentley restored by the power of the Antichrist, how exactly does it work? Is he drawing _Armageddon_ _the Redux_ ever closer with his driving? It's one of the few real pleasures in life, driving the Bentley. He'd hate to think it.

Anathema is waiting for him at the pub. She's laughing with a group airmen off-duty from the American base that was once the battlefield in the very short war for the fate of Humanity. _She's laughing and happy._ It's something that never fails to reassure Crowley that he's done the right thing. Not the Right Thing, as Aziraphale might do it, but he's done the right thing within the greater Plan. Humanity deserves to go on. People aren't a pitch to be played on.  
  
Anathema grins and waves him over. He slides into the booth beside her and she pushes her pint toward him, hardly touched. Crowley isn't fond of beer but he suffers through it, dodging curious questions from the airmen. Someone asks how they met, they seem like such an unlikely acquaintance.  
  
"Anathema and I go way back," he drawls. "Right to the beginning of the end of the world."

"He hit me with his car."  
  
"No, you hit my car with your body."  
  
"On that note, gentlemen, we really should be going."  
  
The airmen's shocked faces over their glasses will fuel Crowley's mood for at least a few days. He follows Anathema out of the pub and helps her to fasten her bike into the rack that is attached to the back of the Bentley simply because it should be right in that moment, as much as it pains Crowley to look at.  
  
At least it's not tartan.  
  
"I think you'll really be impressed with the roses, Crowley. They've practically taken over the side of the yard."

Anathema chatters amiably as they weave their way through the nonsense streets, no rhyme or reason really to the layout; just carved out around old dirt roads and even older plots of land. She's not renting Jasmine Cottage anymore -- she owns it, much to Mr. Tyler's chagrin. He's forever attempting to have the town council issue some fine or another for the smattering non-native blooms in the garden that has swallowed the property. He has even written to the _Tadfield Advertiser_ , on more that one occasion, that he suspects witchcraft afoot at the residence and it should be put to an end. The _Advertiser's_ editors, starting to turn over to a new generation, have declined to published his letters.

Anathema runs through the customary updates as they settle into the kitchen. She talks and rattles around with the tea pot and tins. Crowley listens:

The autumn was perfect and crisp. The air was bracing but no more than a sweater's worth. The foliage turned slowly over from green to red and yellow and orange. The trees stayed full through the season and then slowly became bare as vibrant leaves floated softly to the ground.

On the first day of December there was a light, fluffy snow. Just the right weight for a good snowball fight. The weather dropped at a slow, steady rate until on Christmas Eve it snowed in earnest and in the morning everything was covered in a quiet, clean blanket.

The spring was mild and beautiful and the summer was long and hot -- but not too hot, not enough to be uncomfortable. No fish fell from the sky. No aliens came to deliver messages of universal peace. There was no fire, not even a single tornado. The rain only fell as warm, pleasant sun showers when it did. The earth hadn't opened up. No nuclear wars had started.

Adam was still at 4 Hogback Lane, cranking out a manuscript that he swore would instantly deserve a place in Mr. Fell's shop upon publication.

The rest of the Them are off and doing well at university, too. Pepper is taking the world of academia by storm. Wensley is well on his way to being an accountant somewhere. The last time Brian was home he'd brought over the most exquisite lemon tart Anathema had ever tasted. It had gotten him top marks during that particular lesson at culinary school. Not a single one of them had displayed any sort of Horseperson-like aptitude. Since Crowley's last visit.

Anathema puts a steaming cup down in front of Crowley and holds up a pair of tins. He points at the oolong and she plunks down in her seat, taking a bag and offering him the tin.  
  
It's always strange, these visits to Jasmine Cottage. It's strange how comfortable Anathema is in Crowley's presence, interacting with him like she might an old friend even knowing who and what he is. Inviting him into her home. When she comes to London, it's a business transaction as far as Crowley sees it. They take care of whatever occult matter needs taking care of and that's that. There are few pleasantries beyond the exchange of flowers they substitute for payment.  
  
Crowley shifts his legs so that there is room beneath the tiny table for Anathema to stretch hers out. She peers at him thoughtfully over the brim of her teacup.  
  
"Don't you go looking at my aura, I expect dinner first at least." She snorts and takes her glasses off, sets them down on the table. "What is it then? Out with it."  
  
"Does... does Aziraphale know?"  
  
"Know what? He knows and doesn't know a great many things. Six thousand years roaming the Earth will do that."

Anathema rolls her eyes. "Does he know you come here every year? He never comes along. Not on Adam's birthday. Always just you."  
  
Crowley shrugs. He does not discuss these pilgrimages. These are his. He brought the Antichrist into the world, so to speak, so he'll make sure everything stays status-quo.

"If he does, he then he also knows to leave well enough alone." Crowley gulps the still piping hot tea and squints at the witch. "How's Witchfinder Private Pulsifer doing these days?"

Anathema purses her lips and glares. That had all been short-lived, the relationship broken up within the year -- and really sooner than that if everyone involved were honest. Newt was nice, but Anathema could do better. Pepper had insisted upon buying Anathema an ice cream cone when it finally became official -- not with a chocolate dip, though, she really only did have so much allowance.  
  
They'd stayed amiable, of course, for the same reasons they had tried so hard to make it work. They'd faced the end of the world together and there was certainly something to be said for significant shared life experiences.  
  
"I haven't heard from him in a while," she finally says. "No news is generally good news with Newt. Last time we talked he was busy building some kind of database of Witchfinder history. I'm not entirely sure Aziraphale should have done that miracle -- he's become an absolute menace about using a computer and he's still rubbish for the most part."  
  
"Ack," Crowley sneers. "He's still on with that? Even Shadwell can't be bothered with it anymore." They fall quiet, retreated to their respective metaphorical corners. "So when are we expecting the boy?"  
  
Anathema glances at her watch and shrugs. "Soon."  
  
It isn't long at all before Adam is knocking on the cottage door, Dog barking happily as he follows him up the front path. He frowns when he sees Crowley there at the table, his greeting expression just a little more bitter each year. It's around the eyes, the weary scrunch of them, and the way his forehead wrinkles under the obscene mop of his golden hair.  
  
"Happy birthday, dear Lord of Darkness," Crowley snarks and tips his chair onto the back legs. "How is twenty-one treating you?"  
  
"How are six-thousand-something treating you?"  
  
Crowley waves his hand across the tabletop and it is laden with cupcakes, dollops of creamy ganache shining on top. A candle in the cake closest to Adam lights itself. Adam doesn't blow it out. Very purposefully he reaches across the table and takes the cup cake directly in front of Crowley. He unwraps it as he talks.  
  
"Are you trying to steal her style?"  
  
Anathema snorts, firestarter in her hand and poised to relight the stove for another round of tea. "I hadn't even noticed that."  
  
She sees Crowley's confused expression and pats the top of her head, indicating her perfectly spherical bun. Crowley's topknot is much less careful -- or rather, more purposefully un-careful. In the blink of an eye his hair is tumbled over his shoulders in an even more pretentiously messy ponytail.  
  
The greetings are always this way. A surface level hostility that mellows into homey comfort. It's a hazard of who they are. Beings of Hell But Not Really. With the small talk out of the way they relax.

Or, Adam relaxes, into his brilliant and shining self. He chatters about the manuscript he's been working on and the degree he's nearly finished with. Crowley's never heard of any university allowing a student to complete one in entirely online courses, but then again, Crowley never went to university -- except for a short stint in the twelfth century and just a few decades later in the thirteenth to drum up some trouble -- and Adam was the Antichrist and the Antichrist got what the Antichrist wanted.

Crowley watches cupcakes and tea disappear. The candle stays lit but the wax doesn't drip. Crowley isn't doing it. It's not a fake, real as the day is long.  
  
Dog sneezes, waking himself from a sound nap, and settles down again promptly.  
  
Crowley licks a bit of chocolate off of his thumb and tastes the flavor of the room.  
  
There's the energy everywhere that's distinctly Anathema's: bright, hopeful, determined.  
  
Dog: dopey and soft in the same way that a marshmallow that's been roasted for too long is. That is to say, a bit unpleasantly crunchy.

And there's Adam.  
  
It's hard to put words to it, always has been. There is his overwhelming humanity and the astonishing love he harbors for Tadfield and the Them and his parents. But there is something terrible always at the edges of it. Something he keeps in careful control. Some years, the edges have been closer. Darker. Hotter. The year Adam turned sixteen was particularly memorable. Crowley swore there were more gnats around than usual that year.  
  
"Crowley? Did you hear me?"  
  
"Wot?"  
  
"I asked if you thought Aziraphale might read my book. Before I submit it, you know?" There is a shiny, shimmery sweetness about him even with as smug as his tone is.  
  
"Yeah, sure. I'm sure he would. Loves books, he does." Crowley crumples the cupcake wrapper in his hand. "Sure he'd love the chance to read something pre-published. Even better than a mint condition first edition, I bet."  
  
Crowley's chest feels heavy. Adam is grinning. Anathema is moving toward the fridge and Dog is following. She feeds him a slice of cheese as he stands on his hind legs. Adam laughs.  
  
Crowley stands, bumping the table as he does. Teacups rattle and he hisses at them like they're naughty plants.  
  
"I should be going," he blurts. "M25, you know. Total nightmare. Happy birthday, Adam."  
  
Crowley leans in and blows the candle out. Anathema and Adam object to his departure. He hasn't even popped into the garden yet, they argue. And can't he just miracle a clear lane for himself?  
  
"No, no. You should enjoy the rest of your day. Don't humans like birthdays? I'm sure your mum is expecting you, wouldn't do to keep her waiting. I'll just see myself out, don't get up."

Crowley strides through the little cottage and down the front path. He searches the street from the curb, hesitating with his hand on the Bentley's door.  
  
"Car still running?" Adam is behind him, just inside the gate.  
  
"Yes, tip top, thank you."

Adam frowns. "Bye then, Crowley." He raises a brow knowingly. "See you next year. 'Less I catch you lurking again, that is."  
  
"I do not lurk, that is beneath me." He peers at Adam over the rim of his glasses for a moment before he opens the car door and slips inside. "You can mail your papers to the shop when your ready. No need to trek all the way out to Soho."  
  
Adam waves, almost dismissively. The radio bursts to life and Crowley is glad he hasn't started the car yet because he slams his foot against the gas in surprise. _My fairy king can see things that are not there for you and me. My fairy king can do right and nothing wrong._ [1]

"Drive safe, Crowley."

Crowley sticks his hand out the window and waves as he peels away from the curb. The acid that's bubbled up the back of his throat won't let him open his mouth again.

Crowley winds his way around the M25 again, still hoping that he's not doing any irreparable harm with his travel. The phone rings and he answers, unbothered by human law. Besides, Crowley reasons, it's a car-phone and not a cell-phone. Technicalities are technicalities for a reason and he should know that best.

"Crowley-dear, I tried your flat and you weren't in. Just wondering if you'd like to pop around for a spot of lunch."

"'Lo, Angel. I'm a bit busy today. Out running errands, needed some things for the plants."

"Oh dear, you're not really going to try to grow wasabi in the flat, are you?"

"And why not? I've managed everything else. If they can grow it in Middle of Nowhere, Oregon then I can grow it in my flat."

"It's impossible to get seeds this time of year, we read about that when you asked me to help research it."

"Not if you've got connections."

"It's the wrong season to start them."

"Pish-tosh, I know what I'm doing."

Azirapahle sighs in his in his very _Aziraphale way_ that is at once sympathetic and entirely superior. "Well, as long as I get the first taste."

Crowley cannot help but laugh. "Yes, of course. A whole sushi buffet's worth."

"Speaking of which?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, lunch. I'm really rather busy I'm afraid, Angel."

"Tomorrow then, perhaps?"

"Perhaps!" Crowley hangs up the phone and presses down just a bit harder on the gas.

He hadn't really planned to get the wasabi started until the season changed but now, he supposes, he's got to get it started right off. He doesn't like to lie in general, but especially not to Aziraphale. Not after all that they had been though together. He had been planning to acquire a greenhouse or to somehow stick one in the flat. He can make it work with what he has, he thinks. The bathroom has that great skylight and there's nothing else in there to disturb the new plants, except perhaps that one very large clump of _Senecio rowleyanus_ that's taken over the shelving in the corner.

It only takes a few hours that evening for Crowley's supplier to come through with the goods. Crowley supervises while they bring massive new planters and sacks of soil up to his flat, finally taking possession of the wasabi himself.

In the bathroom there is room for the new planters simply because there should be and they shift to where Crowley wants them, arranging themselves around the vanity and fitting into the corners. He rolls up his sleeves and gets to business, ripping open bags of soil and emptying them into pots. The scent of the soil is comforting. It curls though the space and tickles Crowley's nose. It feels _good_ to sink his fingers into it. It's cool and soft and dark -- he thinks of Eden and laughs to himself, tempted to shift his corporation and coil up in the fresh till for a nice nap.

His agricultural connection has brought him stubby little roots instead of seeds. He's learned today that this is a far better way to get them started. He mutters at the knobbly roots as he sets them into the soil, assuring them that he will treat them well so long as they hold up their end of the bargain.

"Ask the pearls over there," he says, jabbing his thumb back over his shoulder. "Spots and wilting won't be tolerated."

Crowley stands and brushes his hands off when he's satisfied with the pattern that he's settled everything into. He fills the watering can from the spout on the tub and carefully hydrates every last bit of earth.

"And we won't be having any of this two years to mature nonsense. You can have until Christmas. It'll be a nice treat for Aziraphale."

There is a rustling all over the flat. It begins softly and grows louder as the flora trembles. With a satisfied smirk, Crowley washes his hands and gathers up the tools of his trade. When he glances at the nearest wasabi plant, it has sprouted a tender green leaf from its top.

Exhausted, Crowley sleeps.

When he wakes, there are dozens of messages on his answering machine and cell phone. Aziraphale and Anathema and Shadwell and Adam -- all missed calls and short requests for a call back. 

Aziraphale is concerned, although he does not say it directly.

Anathema is amiably annoyed.

Shadwell is convinced that Crowley has been stolen back to Hell and dunked in a big tub of holy water, great pins thrust through him curing his arthritis. Shadwell also perhaps, maybe, possibly might need a very small loan -- because you see, he'd like to do something nice for Marjorie, that is, Madame Tracy.

Adam is... Adam. He wonders if Crowley is simply ignoring everyone and hopes that he'll be back in Tadfield soon.

It makes him uneasy, the same nervous bubble rising in his throat that does during his annual pilgrimage. He sits up and rubs his eyes. He knows that time has passed not by any change of the light or weather but by instinct. He has not taken a lovely, refreshing nap so much as he has been in a stone-like slumber for a handful of weeks. Crowley also knows this because his watch was working perfectly fine the last time he looked at it and now it has entirely run down. One would think that for just about twenty thousand whole American dollars that the thing would just keep on ticking indefinitely. Crowley has never, however, used the charging dock that came with it. He flicks the side of it hard with his nail and the belts that make up the face _whirr!_ to life, speeding around to find the correct time. [2]

He groans and stretches and frowns while he takes off his shoes, having fallen asleep entirely clothed. The flat is silent as he pads his way through, but Crowley can hear something like the fuzz between radio stations when he listens very closely. He checks the electronics, terrified for a moment that Hell has been listening to him... or worse yet that one of them has come through, lurking somewhere in a dark corner and waiting to do just what Shadwell suggested. He'll have to remember to wire over that money the old witchfinder asked for. Madame Tracy deserves a nice vacation or something and someone might as well enjoy Crowley's fortunes when he's nothing more than a puddle of demonic goo.

He can't feel anything. No out of place presence. No stench of fire or brimstone. In the kitchen, Crowley opens the otherwise bare freezer and pulls out the ice tray. He tosses two cubes into a glass and drags himself back to the living room. The bottle of Macallan is right where he left it and he pours himself several fingers of it. [3] As he sits and sips he realizes that the white noise is rain battering the building. Behind the heavy curtains the sky is grey and disastrous. Below, the gutters are threatening to give up. Lightning flashes so brightly, his eyes hurt with it. The crack of thunder shakes the window glass and reverberates in Crowley's chest. Tripping backward, the whiskey sloshes out of his glass and the ghost of the blinding bolt blurs his vision.

Crowley's phone rings and that's it -- utterly startled, he drops his glass. Ice and drink and shards of crystal explode on the floor at his feet. His screen lights up with a picture of a nasty, grinning skull. Crowley dances around the dangerous debris and gropes for the stupid brick. He smashes the icons with his thumb and presses it to his ear. "What," he snarls into the speaker.

"Hullo, Crowley," Adam says brightly on the other side. "I had a feeling you were awake."

"Yes, well, it's daylight, people tend to generally be awake during this portion of the Earth's rotation."

"Did you know that the Earth used to spin so fast that it was flat on top and bottom? Like a squashed down barrel."

Crowley doesn't answer. It was before his time or at least before his awareness that the Earth was now a thing that existed. For all Crowley knows, the boy is right. And even if he isn't, if Adam believes in something hard enough, it's true. The last thing Humanity needs is Adam believing in more things. Crowley looks toward the window and sees the rain and feels extremely queasy. "Adam," he asks in as even a tone as he can manage. "Is everything quite alright?"

"Oh yes, of course it is."

"Why exactly then do I get the honor of a personal phone call?"

"Well, I thought you might want to swing by Tadfield soon. Anathema is quite cross with you and her scrying and predicting is all out of sorts because of it. And I figured you could bring Aziraphale. Mum wants to treat him to tea for agreeing to read my book. I think she thinks it'll butter him up or something."

"Aziraphale likes butter."

"Wot?"

"Hm? Yes. Sure. I'll come by this week. I'm sure you'll know when."

"Alright then. I'll see you Friday afternoon. Don't dress too flash, you know how it makes Dad's blood pressure."

Crowley hangs up and stalks though the flat to his office. The plants all hold their breath as he passes, their leaves held high and their greenest bits thrust forward like a shield. It's not difficult to push his desk out of the way. It bumps rather soundly against the wall and the chair is even easier to push in the other direction. He stops in the middle of the floor and a section of the polished wood slides away. Beneath is a neatly painted summoning circle. It's a secret. Hell doesn't communicate this way. They get in when they want you through the radios and the televisions and the phones. Anything with a speaker. Anything that they can use to whisper bitter nothings in your ear.

It's the other place that talks this way. They're available, but they make you put the effort in. The let you wonder whether you've been heard.

Decades ago, Crowley found Aziraphale's circle in the shop. He'd known without knowing what it was, memorized the format fairly easily and then painted it here in his flat in this hidden spot. The rest, he thought, was probably intuitive.

There are candles on the desk because he needs them. He sets them around the circle, lining them up with the symbols and lighting them as he goes. Just a gentle little puff of breath is all each needs and then they're glowing and in short form the circle itself is giving off a Glorious kind of shimmer.

"Ah, hello? Up there." There is no answer. Crowley clears his throat and tries again. "Hello, God, it's me, Crowley."

A column of brilliant light erupts from the circle and there is a distinctly angelic kind of tinkle in the air. "This is _highly_ irregular," a voice scoffs. It's coming from the light but not really. Sort of from above but also all around. The Metatron sounds distinctly annoyed. "How did you even get hold of this line to call?"

"Never mind that. I need to speak to Her. The Almighty. Parent of us all."

"God does not speak to demons."

"Yeah, well, we don't usually speak to Her either, but this is important."

"How utterly presumptuous of you. Hang up, immediately."

"No! I've got concerns and only She can deal with them."

"And what concerns are those?"

"For Her ears only. If She's got them. Does She? I don't remember."

"No one speaks to the Almighty without going through me. What do you want, Demon Crowley?"

"I think the world is ending again." Crowley can feel the words tumbling off of his lips before he can stop them. There's hysteria mounting in his tone that he can't control. "The Antichrist is being _far_ too nice and there's an awful storm and _I can just feel it -- somethingisnotrightpleaseletmespeaktoHerplease._ "

The Metatron laughs. "I don't know what you think you're doing, Crowley, but it's not going to work. You had your chance to play your part in the Final Battle and you cocked that up. Deal with the consequences and lose this number."

The light fades and the tinkling stops. The circle still glows, still active until Crowley closes it, he guesses. He's trembling, he realizes. All over, from head to toe. His ears are ringing so loudly that he couldn't hear the angelic sound even if he tried. His skin crawls and he sucks in air so hard that it hurts.

Crowley lets out such a sound that the rain over the building the flat is in temporarily stops falling. It comes down in sheet when Crowley has exhausted himself and later he'll learn that the roof nearly caved in with the sudden deluge. For now, as scales erupt along his knuckles and his jaw shifts and his tongue flicks into the air to taste the last particles of the Holy in the air, Crowley kicks the candles over.

The summoning circle smolders and burns. The wood flooring crackles and pops and the light dies completely. The flame from the candles extinguishes itself, hellfire much less temperamental than the other kind.

Crowley stalks though the flat, his corporation rebelling against his desire to stay himself. In the bathroom he cannot look at his twisted visage in the mirror -- half serpent, half man -- all Demon. He turns his rage on the wasabi plants. "I told you to _grow_ ," he screams in their general direction. Fearful, the string-of-pearls in the corner pushes several new beads from beneath the soil of its pot. The viney tendrils crawl closer across the floor to make room. The wasabi simply trembles for a moment before it seems to get the picture. Every knobbly little stalk blooms with tender green leaves. The fan-shaped fronds waggle like they're being fluttered by so many courtesans. " _Better!_ " Crowley shouts and the little plants put in the effort.

Hours later, Crowley is sitting in the bathtub. The steam curls though the room, billowing off the water at a fantastic rate. A human couldn't sit in this bath. They'd be off to hospital just for dipping their toes in. It's Crowley himself heating the pool, the warmth of his rage enough to make the water simmer.

"Crowley!" he hears, and a thorough bang on the door of the flat. "Crowley, I am coming inside you foul fiend, I'm sick of worrying!"

The door doesn't crash open or explode in a hail of splinters. It simply unlocks itself and swings aside to allow Aziraphale entrance. He'll have to fix that, Crowley thinks, can't have angels bursting in whenever they want without even so much as a key or a how-do-you-do.

Azirapahle's face is full of shock and wonder when he steps into the bathroom. His smart shoes splash on the wet floor. All around the walls have been swallowed by a lush crush of greenery. He recoils when he finally looks at Crowley and the demon isn't sure if it's disgust or not. He knows what he looks like -- wings unfurled and dipped into the tepid puddle on the floor, skin scaly and discolored, hair a matted mess of weeks in bed.

"You know you're meant to disrobe before getting in a bath, don't you?"

Crowley scoffs. "Go away, Angel."

"No, I don't think I will." He hangs his coat and hat and umbrella on the empty bathrobe peg on the back of the door. "Something is wrong."

"There's nothing wrong. Everything is _tickety-boo_ ," Crowley mocks.

Aziraphale looks all around for a moment and then drags the fancy little seat from in front of the vanity over to the tub. He parks it with a screech of wet metal and tile right beside the big claw-footed vessel. "You're a mess," he mutters.

"I am not. I'm enjoying a nice soak."

"You're stewing."

Crowley sinks just a bit further down into the water. He pats his hair. It's a futile gesture. The water on his hands only makes the ruin of it look worse -- like a mangy alley cat caught out in that storm. "You can pull one of those roots up if you like. They should be ready for harvest." He juts his chin toward the overgrown pile of wasabi. "They like the humidity, I suppose."

Aziraphale purses his lips and raises a brow.

"No one will listen, Angel."

Azirphale looks down at his lap for a moment, wringing his hands. He slouches, entirely unlike himself, and props and elbow against the edge of the tub. He plants his cheek against it and reaches over to tuck a tangled hank of hair behind Crowley's terrible, pointed ear. He can feel the angel's trepidation for just a moment and it dissipates as quickly as it manifested.

"Well," Azirphale's voice wavers just a bit. Crowley's chest feels heavy with something he can't really put words to. "That's what Angels are for."

Aziraphale smiles and the plants all around the flat relax.

* * *

1\. Queen -- [My Fairy King](https://youtu.be/VeVjEg4znQk), 1973 [Back to text.]

2\. Devon Works, LLC suggests charging your Tread 1 every twenty-one days or when the power level reaches twenty percent. Crowley's instinct was perhaps dependent on the fact that his watch had stopped and had been nearly fully charged the last time he was conscious. [Back to text.]

3\. Whiskey, stupidly expensive just like the wristwatch. [Back to text.]

**Author's Note:**

> i love comments thank youuu


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